


Sherlock: Blue On Black

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Series: Sherlock: Colours [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been cutting himself... and John finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Blue On Black

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.
> 
> Warnings: This story contains references to self-harm (cutting). If this upsets you, please don't read the story.

_Sherlock shifted and grabbed what had been thrown at him. Opening his eyes, he saw the bloody wash cloth he used to wipe blood from the bathroom floor._

_Turning, he saw John standing across from him, razor blade in one hand._

_‘Sherlock...’ he said slowly, carefully. ‘We need to talk.’_

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

Sherlock shifted so that he was lying back on the couch.

‘And what exactly do we need to talk about?’ he asked smoothly. He was still buzzing from the pain, the cuts, the gentle burning thumping up his arm.

‘Sherlock, why is there a bloody towel and a razor blade under the sink?’

Sherlock snorted but didn’t answer.

John sighed and fell to sit on the desk in the corner, pushing back his laptop. ‘Sherlock I... what... why do you do it?’

‘Why do I do what?’

‘Damn it, Sherlock!’ John shouted. ‘Don’t fucking play games with me! Why are you doing this to yourself?’

Sherlock thought about that for a second. Why did he do it? Because it felt good, that was all. It pushed away the boredom. He couldn’t be bored when his arm throbbed and ached and stung and _burned_. Boredom couldn’t be tolerated.

‘I... like it.’

‘You _like_ it?’

‘That is what I said,’ Sherlock said and closed his eyes. He wished John would go away. The pain was fabulous and John was ruining it.

‘Sherlock, this is... this is just _stupid_. Why would you hurt yourself like this? I mean, the drugs I get, you need a... fuck, you need to feel _something._ But cutting, really?’

‘Cutting is a serious psychological disorder,’ Sherlock mused.

‘I know that! I’m a doctor!’

‘So why are you yelling?’

‘Because you’re smart enough to not fucking slice your own skin open, Sherlock!’

Sherlock chuckled. ‘Apparently I’m not.’

‘Is this all a game for you?’

Sherlock turned to look at John. The man was upset, clearly, but Sherlock didn’t understand why. He wasn’t killing himself, was he? A small amount of cuts wouldn’t really hurt him. And he would never go too far. Often he cut a little too deeply, but he’d never actually kill himself.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Yeah? Neither do I.’

They both paused, staring at each other.

‘How long?’

‘How long what?’

‘ _Sherlock!_ ’

Sherlock sighed and rolled over, back to John. He was getting bored now. John was interrupting the pain. ‘I’ve been cutting myself since I was a teenager,’ he finally admitted. ‘Not all the time. The drugs made me stop for a while. But now, without them, I find that the cutting helps... keep the boredom away. And Mycroft isn’t as annoying about the cutting.’

‘He knows?’

‘He knows everything, John.’

‘And he’s never tried to stop you?’

‘Of course he has!’ Sherlock snapped. ‘Why do you think he’s always coming over here?’

‘Dunno,’ John muttered, ‘world dominance?’

He wasn’t really joking and Sherlock knew it. He’d hurt John. He just didn’t understand why.

‘How does this affect you?’ Sherlock asked, back still to John. ‘I’m not unconscious somewhere bleeding out. Why does this annoy you?’

‘Why does it... Sherlock, you’re fucking hurting yourself for _fun_. This is a serious problem.’

‘I have many problems, in case you haven’t noticed,’ the sociopath drawled.

‘Fuck, Sherlock,’ John groaned and leaned back. He dropped the razor blade onto the desk. ‘You can’t just go around cutting yourself when you feel bored.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s dangerous to your health.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘Sherlock, you’re pale as a fucking ghost. You don’t see it because you’re drugged out on blood loss and pain. But one day...’ he trailed off. Sherlock was annoyed, wanting John to finish his sentence. He turned and winced as his dressing gown pulled at his injured arm.

‘Finish your sentence,’ Sherlock said and winced again as a sharp bolt of pain went up his arm.

John noticed and scowled. ‘Mycroft and Lestrade have told me about you OD-ing,’ he said. ‘How many times?’

Sherlock recounted quickly, ‘Seven.’

‘Seven?’

‘Seven.’

‘And you never wanted to get clean?’

‘I had to get clean, to work with the police. Lestrade wouldn’t have it any other way.’

John shook his head and ran his short fingers over his eyes. ‘Sherlock... Jesus Christ...’

‘Finish your sentences!’ Sherlock snapped.

‘Fuck you!’ John spat and Sherlock’s eyes went slightly wide. ‘Fuck you, Sherlock. You have no idea, do you?’

Sherlock scowled. ‘No idea about what?’

‘You’re a fucking addict.’

‘I’m well aware of that, thank you.’

‘No, you don’t get it,’ John said. ‘One day you’ll fucking cut too hard, or you’ll cut too many times. You will because you’ll build up a tolerance. And you won’t ask for help, you’ll sit in that fucking bathroom and bleed out. Is that what you want?’

That hurt Sherlock. Did John really think Sherlock was stupid enough to accidently kill himself? From the look in his eyes; yes, John did believe that.

‘I’m not an idiot,’ he pouted and once more turned away from his flatmate.

‘From where I’m sitting you are,’ John muttered. Sherlock ignored him. ‘Sherlock, this has to stop.’

‘No it doesn’t.’

‘It does.’

‘No.’

‘ _Sherlock!_ ’

Sherlock was suddenly on his feet and inches from John. John stood slowly. He didn’t care that Sherlock was taller, stronger, doped out on pain. He stood up and faced him.

‘Why do you care?’

‘Because I fucking like you, Sherlock. You’re my friend and I care about my friends hurting themselves.’

‘I _need_ to do this, John. It takes away the boredom!’

‘No, it makes you focus on the _pain,_ Sherlock. How long before the boredom comes back, huh? How long before you’re pretending to take a shower just so you can cut yourself?’

Sherlock ignored him and turned away.

‘Don’t turn your back on me!’

Sherlock continued to go, heading for his room. John purposely grabbed his injured arm, forcing Sherlock to stop and face him.

‘How long before cutting isn’t enough, Sherlock?’ John demanded. ‘How long before you want to cut into the muscle, the bone? How long before you fucking cut your arm off just to feel high?’

‘Leave it, John.’

‘No.’

‘Leave it.’

‘NO!’

Sherlock turned, swinging a fist at John. But John was a soldier and had good reflexes. He ducked, twisted Sherlock around, and punched him in the face.

Sherlock stumbled back, pain flaring along his face.

‘Sherlock!’ John shouted as his flatmate fell back onto the couch. John had hit him. He’d _hit_ him. ‘You have people who care about you! And I know you care, don’t give me that sociopath shit!’

Sherlock looked up at John through one eye. His other was swelling and he knew the skin would be darkening already.

‘Mycroft cares about you, Lestrade cares about you, Mrs Hudson cares about you, _I_ fucking _care_ about you! You can’t go hurting yourself just because you’re fucking bored!’

‘I can if I want,’ Sherlock pouted.

‘No, you can’t. Because I will fucking follow you around for the rest of your bloody life to make sure you don’t.’

Sherlock stared at John. ‘What?’

‘You heard me!’ the doctor snapped. ‘Sherlock, I bloody well care about you, you got that? And no amount of tantrums, or punching, or bloody relapses will make me stop caring! So I’ll stalk you if I have to, Sherlock, but I’m not letting you do it again!’

His anger was petering out and he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with an ice pack. He sat heavily next to Sherlock.

‘But none of that matters if you don’t want to stop, Sherlock. And please, _please_ tell me that you want to. I can’t stand this behaviour, Sherlock. Please stop, for me, for the thrill of the case, for _anything._ Just stop.’

Nobody had ever just asked Sherlock to stop. His parents hadn’t cared, Lestrade had been doing his job, Mycroft had forced him to stop. But John... John believed in Sherlock. He believed that he could get past this.

He believed in Sherlock.

‘Sherlock, I know what this is. You want to feel in control, you don’t want the boredom robbing you of the feeling of control. But cutting isn’t the answer. And I don’t want you to do it. Please, just stop, I’m asking as a friend. Can you stop for me, Sherlock? I’d stop for you.’

He sighed and fiddled with the icepack.

‘Sherlock, I’ve killed for you, I’ve run around London chasing criminals for you, and I’ve bloody well been kidnapped for you. So please, _please,_ just stop... for me. Do this one small thing for me. I’ll help you anyway I can.’

Sherlock stared at John, not sure what to say. He’d always enjoyed the cutting, the thrill it brought. Be he liked John, he cared about John. And he knew John wouldn’t stay if he denied him this one thing. If Sherlock denied John the chance to get him clean, he’d leave forever.

And Sherlock couldn’t have that. He couldn’t stand it. No, worse than the boredom, worse than the lack of control, was John leaving. Sherlock would lose more control then. He’d spiral down, down, ever down into the black pool that swallowed him when he was bored.

With John he wasn’t bored. With John he was alive, and liked, and had fun.

Could he do this for John?

Could he stop?

‘Sherlock?’

‘I...’

‘You what?’

Sherlock rubbed at his bruised eye with one hand, at his scared arm with the other.

‘I... I can try, John.’

‘Really?’ Sherlock nodded. ‘You’ll try and stop? For me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you asked. But John... I... I need the pain, John.’

‘No,’ John said. ‘What you need is to talk to me. Just talk, Sherlock, or throw a tantrum. Or fucking hit me, I don’t care. But _don’t_ hurt yourself. Promise me.’

‘I...’

‘Sherlock.’

‘I promise, John.’

They both knew this might end badly. Even if Sherlock said he’d stop, he’d be coerced by his own boredom into doing it again. But hopefully he’d talk to John about it. Hopefully John could stop him. Hopefully the brilliant Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t fall victim to a razor blade on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor.

John pressed the blue icepack to Sherlock’s black eye. ‘Better?’ he asked.

Sherlock nodded slightly. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

John smiled and Sherlock winced as he pushed a little too hard. John just smiled more.


End file.
